


Joaquín

by mustachio



Category: Book of Life (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Body Horror, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Kissing, Possession, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:04:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustachio/pseuds/mustachio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years is a long time to have a medal that has the power to corrupt your mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joaquín

The bright green glow and lack of any sort of pupil in the soldier’s eyes assures Manolo that whoever this is, it is not Joaquín. They may be wearing his face, but this is not Joaquín. It can’t be. It doesn’t even seem human.

“You’re pathetic, Manolo! You think you can protect María? You’re a coward!” It calls out with a gargled voice.

Manolo looks out from the corner of his hiding place. Something black is spilling out from its mouth. It grins at the empty space in front of him with teeth that are too sharp and covered with even more of the black stuff. The blood on Joaquín’s sword washes away in thin streams as the rain pours down on the town. Seeing it makes the burning pain in Manolo’s body that much stronger. He presses himself into his hiding spot a little more and takes his hand away from the wound on his shoulder. With no pressure on it or bandages to cover it, the wound is still bleeding just as hard as it was when Joaquín—

_No, not Joaquín. Joaquín would never do this_.

The wound is still bleeding just as hard as when it stabbed him. Manolo is beginning to feel a little dizzy from it. And that’s not even the only injury he’s got.

“Manolo,” the thing wearing Joaquín’s face calls out again. “I want to hear you sing for me. That is what you’re best at, isn’t it?”

It takes a step forward in Manolo’s direction. The tip of the sword drags on the floor as it walks, like the sword is too heavy to lift properly or it just can’t get Joaquín’s arms to work. Neither is true, Manolo knows that. This wound in his shoulder is the proof of it. It takes another step closer. He’s almost certain the Joaquín imposter doesn’t know where he’s hiding yet, but he’s on the right track and Manolo would rather not be around when it figures it out.

He stands on shaky legs, his own wounded arm hanging uselessly at his side. Joaquín’s garbled and possessed voice calls out Manolo’s name again. He does his best to ignore it. Manolo uses the old wooden stand at his side to help him steady himself. The stand isn’t at all stable, though, and the moment he puts a fraction of his weight on it all falls apart. And it is loud when it falls.

“Found you.” Comes that awful voice from behind him.

_Run_ , Manolo thinks, but doesn’t move.

Where will he go? He can’t go home. He can’t risk his family getting hurt. Joaquín’s house? It’s where he goes whenever he’s feeling distressed. He can’t go there now. Much as he’d like to believe this isn’t Joaquín, it’s Joaquín enough that the Mondragon house won’t be safe. He could stay and face it. He would probably die. Spending time with Joaquín was never something that required Manolo to arm himself before. If he were to stay, he would have very little to protect himself from whatever bloodthirsty spirit that seems to have taken control of his friend’s mind.

Manolo takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He can hear Joaquín’s—its—heavy footsteps coming closer. He needs to decide what he’s going to do. Manolo spins back around and opens his eyes.

“I’ve missed you, Manolo.” It says.

“What have you done with Joaquín?” Manolo mostly manages to succeed in keeping his voice steady.

It frowns and Manolo finds himself remembering the other day when Joaquín had come home from a five month long mission. Manolo had been kept at practice late that day and when he had finally been able to meet Joaquín at the gates he’d been frowning that same frown. Manolo stands as tall as he can. Joaquín’s body still towers over him.

“Don’t you recognize me, Manolo? I am Joaquín. Have those mariachi brothers become so important to you that you can’t even remember me?” Joaquín adjusts his hold on the sword so that he’s gripping the blade.

Black ooze—tar, Manolo thinks—gushes from his hand where the blade breaks the skin. The awful grin from earlier returns, as though this thing claiming to be Joaquín isn’t bleeding out black.

“You aren’t Joaquín.” Manolo insists. “Whatever you are, you aren’t him. Now let Joaquín go.”

He tries to be menacing. He tries to make himself sound threatening. But Manolo has no weapons, he’s injured, and he has no idea what he’s dealing with. Those attempts turn into failures quickly.

“That’s okay, Manolo. I forgive you. I’ll make sure you never forget me again.”

It raises the sword up as it takes more steps towards Manolo.

Manolo tries to get away, but his attempt at this is also a failure. He backs into the wall that had just before been keeping him out of this thing’s view.

“Please, put it  _down_.” Manolo pleads. He holds the hand of the arm that’s mostly uninjured out to show he is no threat. Not that it wasn’t obvious already. “Joaquín wouldn’t do this. If you were him you would know that!”

His words go unacknowledged. It just keeps approaching until it’s close enough to touch Manolo and when he is he grabs at Manolo’s shirt. Manolo tries to avoid him, but he’s too slow. He jerks to the side without much result. Joaquín has always been faster and stronger than him. Whether or not this is Joaquín in mind, it is still Joaquín in body and it shows. Manolo is thrown to the ground hard enough that his head hits the stone. He’s disoriented by it, can barely process what’s happening when Joaquín kneels over him with the sword still in hand, and cuts the sleeve of his traje de luces clean off leaving the skin of his arm bare.

“You said you loved me once, Manolo. Do you remember that?”

Even if Manolo weren’t still reeling from the blow to his head, he wouldn’t be able to answer. His vocal chords are occupied by screaming. The blade of Joaquín’s sword cuts into his arm slowly and purposefully. Blood is quick to pour out and Joaquín or whoever or whatever it is cutting into him does nothing to wipe it away.

“Everyone is always asking for my signature. None of them will have one like this. This is just for you.”

By the time the ‘a’ is done Manolo’s throat feels like it’s bleeding, too. Still, he screams. He can feel his blood rushing out of his veins; can feel every cut the sword makes. He can feel everything and he wants to die. His heart feels like it’s skipping a beats. He can’t get enough breath into his lungs and deep breathes are an impossibility.

When Joaquín’s lips press against his, Manolo has no energy to stop it.

“Shh, I’m almost done. You’ll always remember me after this.”

Manolo doesn’t keep screaming when the not- Joaquín pulls away. He can’t. He doesn’t even feel like he’s awake. It keeps cutting and cutting and cutting until almost the entirety of Manolo’s arm has been carved into. Joaquín’s name bleeds out across Manolo’s arm. Manolo is shaking. His eyes are open—glazed over—but he sees nothing. There’s only a vague sense of awareness as not- Joaquín admires its work.

“Perfect.” It says.

It runs its hand over the cuts admiringly, mixing Manolo’s blood with tar. It kisses each letter, smearing blood all over Joaquín’s mouth.

“What do you think, Manolo?”

It grins at Manolo, blood and tar dripping from its mouth in a horrific display. When Manolo doesn’t answer the grin fades. It waits for Manolo to answer, but when an answer never comes the glowing green where Joaquín’s eyes should be begins to die down.

“Manolo?” Joaquín’s voice is still somewhat garbled.

He moves off of Manolo and stands. The movement of Manolo’s chest is slow and weak, but it’s there. Manolo is alive.

“Manolo?” Joaquín calls, voice completely normal now.

As the last of the unnatural green fades from Joaquín’s eyes, he takes in the sight of Manolo’s arm. A name has been brutally carved into Manolo’s skin. The cuts are sure to leave scars that may never fully heal and do not stop bleeding no matter how much Joaquín wills them to.

“Manolo!” Joaquín drops to his knees at Manolo’s side.

“Joaquín?” Manolo says, voice hardly above a whisper.

He screams.


End file.
